I’ve picked the wrong time of year. It’s raining almost every day and night. My coat’s a mess. I haven’t been combed in days. I keep thinking of Amber and will see if she’s at the back door. Sometimes she waits there and chats with passersby, the odd possum – you can smell them through the glass–the banditos stop by some nights. They’re cool . . . and very clean. They want to know what it’s like inside the house. They want to come in. They’re very curious and always out late. I understand their curiosity. The question always comes before the answer seems to me. If you don’t have many questions you won’t get a lot of answers. Questions can stand alone, answers— I’m not so sure. The questions seem to disappear when there are answers. Questions are the mothers of thought. . . and questions, are born out of curiosity.

I was reading some of this stuff, mostly to check up on what Amber was into, those incredibly dull psych books. It must be lots of work to make a simple things sound so complex, difficult and hard to understand. You are surprised to read these words. The truth is I do quite a lot of thinking. That’s one of the great things about being a cat. You have a lot of leisure time. I don’t get bored. I think about heavy stuff all day and night. I don’t have time for batting balls around the room, or chasing little stuffed mice tied to a sting in the house-woman’s hand. Amber gets into it. Chases little stuffed things, jumps and pounces. Cute to watch, but not my bag. Will Chase For Snacks, that’s my motto. Toss something worth eating and I’ll jump for it, or chase it, or whatever floats you boat. It is agreed that tossed snack will be obtainable within fifteen seconds . . . or is amusingly evasive. I haven’t had a snack in days. I miss that.
There’s a big full moon tonight. It’s great to be out here, in the fresh air, the smells and sounds I’ve never known before. I can go wherever I want, whenever I please. I get along with Boots. I think it turns him on to think of me as one of his gang. As far as I know I am his gang. Boots knows the neighborhood; I’ll give him that, and that little doorway into his house is brilliant. He’s got the best of both worlds. And short-hair coats are best for living of the lose.

I have one world now. I miss the one where I could take a warm dry nap and feel safe. Boots hunts all day and night . . . birds and mice. Just like he said when we first met, a natural born killer. Boots is all around the neighborhood at night, and I was too at first . . . then . . . I don’t know. I’m such a mess. I like this freedom, but I don’t like mice—at all. The food thing is not good. And it keeps raining. I’ll go visit Amber and then let the servants find me when the woman’s on the way out to the car. They’ll be so glad to see me. I must try to act standoffish and will probably get a bath, but this time I don’t mind, this time and this time only.

Damn!

The Coyote!

And he’s seen me!

No, he’s caught my scent but blinded for a moment as a car has turned the corner up ahead.
This is not good.

4 Responses to Buckminster & Amber – 17

Lovely one Bruce – made me laugh out loud…
Am having trouble, Word Press won’t let me in these days… think I’m disconnercted, but don;t know how to get in… so will jump through some hoops to get this to you!!!